


Prospects

by Rosie447



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study-ish, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Mild Language, Post Season 2, Steve Harrington-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:51:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13284396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie447/pseuds/Rosie447
Summary: “Look, kid - you’re one hell of a babysitter, and I think you’d make a damn good cop.”Steve is in between plans for his future when Hopper makes him an offer.





	Prospects

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Stranger Things story, and I would love feedback on the portrayal of all the characters. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Seventh period trickled by slowly, each tick of the second hand on the clock above the chalkboard seeming to take longer than the one before it. At the front of the room, his English teacher droned on, oblivious, or perhaps deliberately ignoring, the fact that she’d lost the entirety of her class’ attention. The laziness of a Friday afternoon had settled over the classroom, and Steve found himself turning his pencil in circles over his fingers as he watched the clock tick by. On some level it was comforting; even after interdimensional monsters and girls with telekinetic powers, school was still school.

Carol popped her chewing gum loudly, earning a reproachful look from the teacher, who, rather than verbally berate her, gestured to the “No Chewing Gum in Class” sign hanging directly next to Carol’s head. Carol looked at it, smirked, and resumed her smacking with a renewed vigor.

“Can anyone tell me what the road may symbolize?” she asked, seeming to have given up on Carol.

The class was an assembly of the twenty seniors who had opted out of advanced English, and it showed. The question was met with a chorus of silence and shifting. In the back of the classroom, one kid barely looked up from his folding the Robert Frost poem into a paper airplane.

“Anyone?” she repeated, looking amongst her students with such visible disappointment Steve felt sorry for her. Sighing, he flicked his hand holding the pencil upwards in response.

“It symbolizes… life? And choices and stuff.” Steve wasn’t sure whether not he should be offended by her look of surprise, but she nodded encouragingly.

“And how you’re not supposed to do what everyone else is doing because” he paused. “Because it’s the road less traveled?”

“Right! Does anyone else have something to add?”

She looked around at the class again. Across the room, a girl raised her hand slowly, looking at Steve, slightly puzzled. Steve resumed twirling his pencil as a few more people contributed the bare minimum to an otherwise dead class discussion. Even if King Steve had been dethroned, he still apparently had enough pull to keep his English teacher from abandoning them in the middle of the semester. Which was good, considering he felt awkward asking Nancy for help on his application essay now that they’d broken up.

Now that she dumped you, his mind supplied, in a voice that sounded annoyingly like Tommy H.

It didn’t matter much, really, he reminded himself. The chances of him getting into college were slim, even if he did manage to write a decent essay. And honestly? He wasn’t sure he even wanted to go. It wasn’t that it was four more years of school, which was not exactly his strong suit, or even that a major concussion has ruined his chances of getting a basketball scholarship. Though, he supposed both those things were true. It was that he couldn’t imagine leaving Hawkins. Not now, with everything he’d seen. Not with Dustin and Lucas and Max and the rest of the little shits entering high school. Every time he thought about leaving them, even though Hopper insisted that the gate had closed, his stomach clenched uncomfortably. He couldn’t stand the thought of something happening, and his being too far to do anything to help.

“Steve?”

He blinked forcing himself back to the present day. His classmates were filing out of the room.

“Yeah?” he said, glancing around, realizing that, not for the first time these past few weeks, he’d been completely spacing out.

“I just said good discussion today,” she said. “I’m happy to see you making more of an effort.”

“Oh,” he said, articulate as per usual. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He shoved the poem into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He barely left the classroom when a kid called out to him, face red from running.

“Harrington!” he said, then held up a finger to give himself a moment to catch his breath. Steve was pretty sure he was on the junior varsity basketball team, though he had no clue as to what the kid’s name was.

“There’s cops by your car,” the kid said, his voice still breathy.

“Cops?” Steve repeated. The kid nodded vigorously. So vigorously, in fact, that a few clumps of his hair fell in front of his eyes.

It was hard to move quickly in the packed hallways, but it seemed that a fair portion of the student body had heard the announcement, and mostly they gave him space to cut through. Presumably, they thought he was getting busted for alcohol. Which was fair, given his reputation. They had no idea how relieved he’d be if that was all it was.

Ducking out of the doorways, he half-walked, half-ran to his car, parked in its usual spot in the center of the parking lot, scanning for signs of impending doom as if he had any idea what those would look like. He had an impressive tendency not to notice impending doom until it literally opened up its face and hissed at him. The sky was impressively clear for late November, and despite the chill, the sun reflected off the windows of the cars, making him squint. Steve let out a slow breath when he saw Hopper, leaning casually against his car.

This sense of relief was immediately followed by annoyance, as he thought that after world-saving escapades he would get a by on the alcohol busts, and offense, that Hopper really thought he was irresponsible enough to have beers in his car when it was a well-known fact that he chauffeured a group of middle schoolers on a regular basis. He’d never been a rule follower to the strictest letter, but there was no way in hell he’d do anything to endanger those kids.

“Hey chief,” he said, vaguely aware of the group of students gathering behind him, trying - and failing - to pretend that they weren’t planning on getting in on all the gossip.

“Harrington,” Hopper said. “Want to talk?” He nodded to his car, parked on the grass on the edge of the crowded parking lot. Steve had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t the kind of question that left the option of a ‘no’.

“Sure,” he said, adjusting his backpack higher on his shoulder. Hopper nodded once and started walking. After a moment of awkwardly standing there, in the middle of the parking lot, Steve realized that he was probably supposed to follow, and hurried after him, ignoring the gossiping whispers of the students assembled behind them. He knew what it looked like.

“Do you need something, chief?” he said, finally catching up to him in front of the parked police truck.

Prior to this past October, Steve hadn’t been on the best terms with the chief of police. Which was, admittedly, his own fault. The Harringtons had moved to Hawkins when Steve was in sixth grade, looking for what they called ‘a fresh start’, and since then, Steve had managed to ruffle a lot of feathers.

There’d been the time in seventh grade when he, Tommy, and Carol had tried their hand at shoplifting. That he’d reentered the shop of his own accord less than four hours later to return what he’d taken and apologize didn’t seem to win him back many points with the chief of police. Then there’d been the speeding, which, okay, would have been less of a big deal if he’d had more than a learner’s permit. And it wasn’t a huge secret that he enjoyed parties, and blowing curfew, and pointedly ignoring the legal drinking age.

But things had changed. He’d changed, and he’d figured that he and Hopper were back on track since they’d fought interdimensional monsters together.

“What are your plans after high school?”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“What?”

The Chief of Police sighed. Maybe they weren’t quite on track yet, Steve amended. He had been playing the role of ‘rich kid who thinks he’s above the rules’ rather well.

“What are your plans after you graduate?” he repeated. “You got any colleges lined up? Trade school?”

“I - um,” he ruffled the back of his hair searching for an answer that didn’t sound completely lame. “I’m in between plans right now.” He paused. “I’m probably going to end up working for my Dad.” Hopper nodded once like he could tell Steve wasn’t thrilled about the prospect from his tone of voice. Which was fair. His father had all but said outright he didn’t expect Steve to get into college, and that this moment of teenage rebellion would end with Steve humbly returning to him and asking for a job.

Hopper didn’t say anything to that, instead opening the door to his truck and pulling out a stack of papers.

“Joyce thought you might be interested in these,” he said, handing them to Steve. Steve scanned the first line.

“Police academy?” he read, then glanced over at Hopper to see if this was some strange joke.

Hopper nodded.

“It’s a fifteen-week program, plus a few college-level classes,” he said. “But you could probably do it all over the summer if you wanted to.”

“Police academy?” he repeated, dumbfounded.

“I don’t know what your grades look like, but the requirements are less than most universities, and the fact that you’re on a sports team will look good.”

He looked at Steve as if expecting some sort of response, but Steve found he was still kind of stuck.

“You want me to be a cop?”

Hopper let out a breath that was somewhere between a snort and a sigh.

“The question is, kid,” he said. “Do you want to be a cop?” He gave Steve’s hair, which was still perfectly curled after a day of school, a look of skepticism as if he expected he already knew the answer. It felt like a very deliberate ploy, but Steve’s father gave him the same look sometimes, and it got under his skin. “Like I said, Joyce mentioned you might be interested. She was very impressed with how you looked out for those kids.”

“I got beaten to a pulp and then kidnapped by a bunch of middle schoolers,” Steve said flatly. “So impressive.”

At that, Hopper actually quirked what could be perceived as a smile. Steve decided it was just a trick of the light.

“You can be taught to swing a punch,” Hopper said. “Looks like you’ll need to be taught how to swing a punch. But,” he held up a hand as Steve was about to protest. “You adapted to some crazy circumstances, and you put yourself in danger to protect them, even when they got themselves into trouble doing what you told them not to do. And those things are harder to teach.”

Steve chewed his lip, not quite sure how to respond. He looked at the forms in his hands, not realizing how tightly he’d been clenching the paper.

“Hawkins has changed,” Hopper continued. “There are things out there that my officers couldn’t imagine, much less know how to deal with. I could use someone on the force whose adaptable and aware of certain… people.” He sighed. “Look, kid - you’re one hell of a babysitter, and I think you’d make a damn good cop.”

At that, Steve couldn’t help but grin.

“You think?”

“Don’t get cocky,” Hopped said gruffly, meeting his grin with a stern look. “You’ve still got a lot to learn. And being a cop isn’t easy. It’s tough and messy, and doesn’t pay half as much as whatever it is your father wants you doing.”

“Insurance,” Steve supplied.

“Insurance,” Hopper repeated. “You’ll be getting your hands dirty and working long hours.”

Steve nodded once, trying to maintain a serious, professional expression. In truth, he was still processing the suggestion. His mind hadn’t quite wrapped itself around the idea yet, but something in his gut told him that it felt right.

He scanned the parking lot again and noticed an impatient looking Dustin and Lucas leaning against his car, bikes propped in a way that he really hoped wouldn’t ruin the paint job. Hopper followed his gaze.

“Just a thought,” the police chief said and opened the door to his truck and climbed in.

Steve started heading back to his car to resume his usual chauffeur duties.

“Hey chief?” he said, turning around. “Thanks.”

“No problem, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> The poem referenced is The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost


End file.
